My Favorite Mistake
by kjewls
Summary: After a spontaneous night on the town, Don and Sloan are forced to confront their complicated feelings for one another, and how those feelings will inevitably impact the rest of the Newsroom . . .
1. Chapter 1

Don Keefer downed his fourth glass of scotch with a mournful gusto, as he pretended not to notice Jim and Maggie. The two were seated in a booth across the room from him, laughing heartily, with their heads pressed together, at a shared joke that Don was absolutely positive he wouldn't find the least bit funny. On stage at Hang Chews, a drunken 40-something divorcee was singing, off-key, to Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On." This relentless assault on his ears, coupled with _certain_ recent events, caused Don to wish that he was aboard the _real _Titanic . . . and that it would soon capsize, putting him out of his misery, once and for all.

"Is this seat taken?" Sloan Sabbith asked grumpily.

She had just had a_ truly_ crap day. First, the teleprompter conveniently broke, just as she was trying to read the day's stock report live on air. Then, her mother called to inform her that . . ._ yes_, her _younger _sister _was_ pregnant with _yet another_ baby girl. And when was _Sloan_ planning on settling down, and fulfilling _her_ required quota of grandkids? Because, lord knows, she wasn't getting _any younger_!

_Actually, I'm working on making them for you, right now, Mom, with this nice homeless man I just met outside the office! Gotta go! _Sloan had replied sarcastically, much to her mother's horror. (The woman never _did_ have much of a sense of humor . . .)

Later, to add insult to injury, Sloan made the mistake of logging on to the esteemed economics website on which her "good pal" Neal was purposefully and vigorously lambasting her, in order to gain access to some "elite" club of internet trolls. (As it turns out, not only did she have a big ass, and fake boobs, she also might have once been a man. Good to know!)

With a haphazard flourish, Don motioned for Sloan to sit down next to him. Immediately upon being seated, Sloan grabbed the half-empty bottle of Scotch situated in front of her co-worker, filled the glass he had recently drained, and chugged it down in a single gulp, before slamming it back down on the table. It had just been one of _those_ days . . .

Don glanced at Sloan out of the corner of his eye, secretly glad to find someone on this planet, who _looked_ as unhappy as he felt. Misery did love company, after all . . .

"So, remember how, not too long ago, I asked you if you thought I was losing Maggie to Jim. And you said, 'no.' And then, I asked you, if you were good at knowing these things and you said 'no?'"

"Yes, I do remember," replied Sloan, tonelessly. "I had just been fired_._ And you wanted to girl talk with me about the sorry state of your love life."

Don managed a guilty smile. "Yeah, well, as it turns out, you are _really_ not good at knowing these things."

Sloan turned her chair slightly, so that she could get a better view of the new couple. "They are quite adorable, aren't they?" She mused, with just a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"They've been here for two hours, and neither of them has had a _single_ drink. They are just getting _high _off of one another's _love._ I think, at one point, they actually _nuzzled _noses. I mean, who _does that_? It's like watching the last five minutes of every Disney movie you've ever seen on endless repeat. I keep expecting little smiling woodland creatures to crawl out from under their table with a banner that reads, 'And they lived happily ever after.'"

Sloan leaned over and placed her thumb and forefinger on the base of Don's chin, gently pushing it upward, in an exact mimic of the "chin-up" gesture he had done to her on that awful day, when she thought she had lost her job. Don smiled ruefully, realizing for the first time, how gorgeous Sloan's eyes were. _How had he never noticed that before?_

"Why are you doing this, Don?" Sloan asked solemnly.

"Doing what?" Don asked, his speech slurring ever-so-slightly. "A guy can't drown his sorrows in a few drinks, after he's been dumped? Not all of us can be perfect Princes and Princesses of Newsland, you know," he mused, inclining his head toward Jim and Maggie.

Sloan shook her head. "I'm not talking about the drinking. I fully approve of the drinking," she insisted, pouring herself another glass of scotch as proof of this. "I'm talking about the drinking _here. _There are plenty of other bars in this city that serve up Scotch and heartbreak."

Don sighed, and slumped backward in his chair. "I guess I've always been a bit of a masochist. Then again, you probably know that better than most people."

Sloan placed her hand protectively on her colleague's shoulder. "Go _home_, Don," she said pointedly.

Don surprised Sloan then, by grabbing her free hand, from across the table. The warmth of his skin against hers caused a sensation throughout her body that she wasn't quite expecting. And she wondered if, perhaps, she should have had dinner, before downing those two large glasses of Scotch. In fact, she couldn't quite remember the last time she had eaten, but she was sure it had been hours ago.

"I can't go home, Sloan. Not now . . . not to that empty house, where Maggie and I used to . . ."

"I know," Sloan interrupted.

And she_ did_ know . . . Sloan knew all about empty apartments, and loneliness, and places where you and the person you thought you loved more than life itself used to . . .

"Come with me," Don said impulsively, his watery eyes gleaming with need and possibility.

"Come where?" Sloan asked skeptically.

"I don't know," replied Don truthfully. "Somewhere . . . _anywhere_ that's not here. I just want to . . . I just _need_ to not feel like this . . . even if it's only for a little while."

Sloan frowned. "I don't think that's a good idea. You're _drunk_. You're _sad_. You don't want to be alone. _Trust me_, I've been there. But I really think you need to go home, and sleep on it. Otherwise, you're going to make a _big_ mistake . . . something you can't take back."

Don grinned charmingly. "That's why I need you to come with me . . . to keep me from making a _big mistake_."


	2. Chapter 2

It was 40 degrees outside, cloudy with a chance of rain, and Don Keefer was wearing sunglasses in the office. (Yes, he was fully aware of how ridiculous this made him look. Thank you very much.) Wearing the sunglasses made Don feel like a vampire, or one of those rich douchebags in those high school movies from the eighties that Maggie always made him watch with her, despite the fact that he hated them with the fire of a thousand suns.

The fact that it was nine o'clock in the morning certainly didn't help matters. One of the benefits of producing a show that aired at 10 p.m. was that, if he was smart and did his preparations in advance (And he was _always_ smart, and _always_ did his preparations in advance.), he rarely ever had to even _see_ the inside of his office before 2 p.m., 1 p.m., at the _earliest. _

This little job perk of his came in particularly handy, after nights like last night, when he was up until _6 a.m._, and drinking until _4 a.m. _It didn't happen often, mind you. But on the rare occasions when it _did_ happen, he always appreciated the extra "recovery" time he received, while the rest of the world was busy working . . .

Except _this time_, Don received a call at 7 a.m., instructing him to be at the office by 9 a.m. for a 9:15 a.m. mandatory ACN staff meeting. To say he was _displeased_ with this unexpected turn of events would be an understatement . . .

Immediately, upon entering his office, Don tugged on the top drawer of his desk, and pulled out the much-coveted bottle of Aspirin, which he clutched adoringly in his fingertips (not unlike the character Smeagol did with that stupid cereal box ring from _The Lord of the Rings_ movies). But, of course, the bottle was empty . . .

When Elliot came knocking on the glass window of his office, Don quickly motioned for the news anchor to come inside. "Please, _please_ tell me you have Aspirin in that obnoxiously over-priced briefcase of yours," Don pleaded.

"Oh hey, look . . . it's Neo from _The Matrix _movies," Elliot mused, pointing at his colleague's sunglasses "Or . . . on second thought . . . maybe not Neo. You probably look more like that Bad Guy, who _also_ wore the sunglasses all the time, but he wore it with a suit, instead of all that black leather Neo used to wear. What was that guy's name again?"

Don rolled his eyes at Elliot. But when he realized that Elliot couldn't _see_ Don rolling his eyes, from beneath the sunglasses, Don moved the sunglasses to the bridge of his nose, so that his eye roll could have the desired impact.

Elliot cringed sympathetically, upon getting the full view of Don's bloodshot peepers. "Wow, you should probably keep those _on_," he warned.

Like everyone else at the office, Elliot had had the misfortune of getting to know Broken-Up-with- Maggie-Don rather well, over the past couple of years. But _this new _Broken-Up-with-Maggie-because-Maggie- was-Dating-_Jim-_Don was a complete anomaly. And Elliot still wasn't quite sure how best to handle him, in a way that would minimize his chances of getting his head chewed off . . .

"Rough night, last night?" Elliot asked tentatively.

* * *

"_Where to, Cruise Director?" Sloan inquired, as Don gently guided her through the double doors of Hang Chews, and out into the city streets._

"_You know what, honestly? I hadn't really thought that far in advance. Wait . . . I got it! There's this strip club down the street called Coed Naked. I haven't been there since my cousin's bachelor party a few years ago. We could start there."_

_Sloan narrowed her eyes at Don. "Please do not insult my intelligence by pretending it wasn't part of your Evil Genius plan, all along, to get me to go to a sleazy strip joint with you, Mr. Master of the Dark Arts."_

_Don smirked, and shrugged his shoulders. "Hey, I get it. If you don't want to go, it's OK. Maggie always used to say that the mere existence of strip clubs sets the feminist movement back about fifty years."_

_Sloan shook her head and smiled. "No, it's fine. I'll go . . . but only because I don't agree with your ex about strip clubs. The way I see it, the fact that a man is willing to shell out over $100 to see the exact same thing he can see at home, or on the internet for free, says a lot more about men, than it does about women."_

"_Touche," replied Don with a grin, as the pair walked toward the club._

_As it turned out, Coed Naked was exactly what the title suggested. The dancers and the wait staff were both male and female, making the site primed for equal opportunity ogling. Don ordered a few shots of tequila for the table, amused by how in awe Sloan seemed of the female dancers on stage, who were currently bouncing up and down and slapping one another's asses to the tune of Lady Gaga's "Show Me Your Teeth." Swan Lake it most definitely was not . . ._

"_Do guys really like that?" Sloan asked, as she watched the performance with her mouth slightly open._

"_Like what . . . Lady Gaga?"_

"_NO!" She exclaimed, cupping her hand over her mouth as she whispered in Don's ear. "Fake boobs."_

"_Oh," Don laughed. "I don't know. I guess some guys do. Personally, I prefer the real thing."_

"_Good answer," offered Sloan, before downing a shot of tequila._

"_Hey," Don began, rotating his body toward Sloan. "This wouldn't happen to be about that thing Neal posted about you on that message board, would it?"_

_Sloan shook her head vigorously. "No," she said unconvincingly._

_Don cocked his head to the side dubiously, and waited._

"_Yes," replied Sloan finally, her lower lip extended in a pout, as she folded her arms across her chest._

_Don knocked back his own shot of tequila. "For the record, it was an idiotic thing to post. No one in their right mind would believe your boobs are fake."_

_Sloan kept her eyes focused on the table, suddenly feeling very silly for even bringing this up in conversation. But with all that tequila and scotch on an empty stomach, it was like she just couldn't help herself. "Eight people posted, agreeing with him," she muttered under her breath._

_Don draped his arm around the couch where they both were seated. "Eight people are morons," he concluded resolutely, earning a smile from Sloan in response._

_This gave Don an idea. "Excuse me. I'll be right back," he promised, offering Sloan a mischievous grin, before leaving her alone at the table._

_Sloan turned and watched, as Don talked intently with a scantily clad blonde (with totally fake boobs, by the way). The girl smiled and nodded, as Don not-so-surreptitiously slipped her what appeared to be a rather large wad of bills. By the time Don returned to the couch, Sloan was already gathering her belongings. _

"_Hey, where are you going?" He inquired._

"_Don't . . . just don't," she muttered angrily, refusing to look at him._

"_Don't what? Hey! Hey!" He began gently, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders. "Talk to me, Sloan. What happened just now? I thought we were having an OK time."_

_I will NOT look at him. I will NOT let myself get drawn in, Sloan thought to herself, trying instead to focus on his blue shirt, which was open, exposing a bit of his chest, which was buffer than she imagined it to be, when she . . . OH, dammit . . . this was NOT working at all . . ._

"_Listen," she said, the anger building in her voice as she spoke. "I know you are going through a tough time. And that's why I was totally cool with offering you moral support and keeping you company, while you drank yourself into a stupor for a night. Then, you said, 'Hey, let's go to a strip club,' and I said, 'Sure, no problem,' because, like I said, you're going through a tough time. But if you expect me to sit here, while you get a LAP DANCE from some FLOOZY, that's just . . ."_

_Don started chuckling loudly, which only served to make Sloan more furious. "I'm glad you're finding this so amusing . . . ASSHOLE."_

"_I'm sorry. I don't mean to seem like I'm laughing at you. You just caught me a bit off guard, is all. Is that what you thought I was doing over there? I'm out having drinks with the most beautiful girl in New York City, and you thought I was going to leave you, sitting here, all by yourself, while I went and got a lap dance?"_

"_You really think I'm the most . . . NO! Don't try to charm me, or patronize me, because that was obviously what you were doing. I saw you slip that woman a wad of cash. And the way you were talking to her, you obviously weren't buying drinks."_

"_You're right, I was a buying a lap dance," Don admitted._

"_Goodbye, Don," Sloan said, trying to release herself from his grasp._

"_I was buying it for YOU."_

* * *

"Hey, you in there?"

The sound of Elliot snapping his fingers in Don's face shook him out of his reverie.

"Yeah . . . sorry," Don replied, blinking heavily. "What were you saying?"

"I was just asking you, if you knew what the meeting was about . . . or why we all got called in so early?"

"No . . . ah . . . I don't have a clue. Sorry."

"Hey, there's Sloan. Maybe she knows," Elliot offered.

Don shook his head vigorously, and began waving his arms in the air. "No, Elliot, you can't ask . . . please don't . . ."

"Hey, Sloan! Come in here a second," Elliot called out.

"Hi Elliot what's . . . " Sloan stopped short, as she locked eyes with Don, or at least, she _would_ have locked eyes with him, if they both weren't hiding behind matching pairs of extremely dark sunglasses.

"Is this part of some new dress code or something? Did I miss the memo?" Elliot asked, looking back and forth between Don's and Sloan's sunglass-adorned faces, clearly confused.

"What was your question, Elliot?" Sloan asked impatiently, still looking at Don.

"_Two_ questions, actually. The first is . . . who's the bad guy in _The Matrix_, the one who wore always wore the suit, and the sunglasses, and kind of looked like . . ."

"_Elliot_ . . ." Don growled.

"The second question is what the heck is this meeting about?"

Sloan took a deep breath before speaking. "The bad guy in the suit from _The Matrix's_ name was Agent Smith. And the meeting is about budget cuts."

Don removed his sunglasses then, forcing Sloan to look him directly in the eyes, for the first time since they . . .

"I've gotta go," Sloan muttered, becoming flustered. "I . . . uh, I think I might have lost my cell phone."

As she turned to leave, Don called out after her. "Try the bathroom."

"What?" Sloan asked, stopping dead in her tracks.

"I _said_ try the bathroom. In the past three months, you've misplaced your phone four times. And every time, you ended up finding it in the bathroom. It's probably in the second stall from the right, because you have this crazy idea that . . ."

" . . . it's the one that gets used the least, which makes it marginally cleaner than the other stalls," Sloan concluded, smiling in spite of herself. "Thanks," she said.

"Anytime," offered Don, solemnly.

Then, she left.

"That was weird, wasn't it?" Elliot said, watching Sloan head toward the woman's restroom. "Don't you think she was being a little bit weird?"

Don had already risen from his chair, and was racing out the door. "_You're _a little bit weird, Elliot," he said abruptly, patting his friend on the back, as he passed him by.

"No, I'm not! Wait . . . _am I really_?" Elliot asked, pouting just a bit.

But Don didn't hear him. He was already chasing after Sloan . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Don Keefer had just walked into the women's restroom. (Yeah, it kind of shocked him too.) He had initially planned to wait for Sloan outside. However, in the brief time since he had seen her enter, four of his colleagues had passed by, each of whom had given him a distinct "look" that said, "Why are you waiting outside the women's restroom?"

So, after the _fifth_ person walked by, and gave him the same "look," Don decided to "be a man" and enter the ladies' room. He looked at his watch. It was 9:15, on the nose. Most of his colleagues were probably already on their way to the staff meeting . . . he _hoped._

But it wasn't until Don stepped inside the restroom, that he was forced to do something _really_ humiliating. He checked underneath the stalls . . . for _feet_. When Don found only one pair of black sensible shoes, poking out of the Second Stall from the Right, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sloan?" He began tentatively, as he hovered near the grey stall door, his hands lodged firmly in his pockets. "It's Don. Listen, you don't have to say anything right now. In fact, it's probably better if you _don't_, because I just need to get this out."

Having had his admittedly ineloquent introduction met with silence, Don took a deep breath, and decided to keep going . . .

"I know last night was a little . . . _unexpected_ . . . at least it was for me. But I just don't want what happened to ruin _us. _You know? Because, for a while, after you and I had That Talk . . ._ I think you know which on_e . . . you kind of avoided me. Scratch that, you _completely _avoided me, which, I know, is exactly what you said you were going to do."

Don paused here, and _waited_. But still . . .there was no response. So, he forged on . . .

"The thing is, I get_ why_ you did it. And I don't blame you_ for_ doing it. But, I really missed you during that time. I missed talking to you, _arguing_ with you, even just . . . seeing your face, instead of the back of your head, while you were running away from me. The truth of the matter is, I need you in my life. On some level, I think I always knew that. I just don't think I realized how _much_ I needed you, until you were gone."

"So, I've decided that I'm going to let you dictate how this goes. If you want us to act like last night never happened . . . and go back to being . . . _well_ . . . whatever it was we were before this . . . I can do that. But, if you . . ."

Suddenly, the toilet flushed, and the bathroom door swung open. "Tess?" Don exclaimed incredulously, as the slim blonde sheepishly emerged from the stall.

"I didn't hear anything, I swear! I'm a _really_ loud pee-er," Tess insisted, with a wide-eyed grin.

Don put his palm to his forehead. "You mean that I_ just_ . . . and she wasn't _even_ . . . Oh God, please shoot me now!"

Then, Sloan emerged from the last stall on the left . . .

Don gawked at her. "You were supposed to be in the Second Stall from the Right," he insisted lamely. _I checked for feet!_ He added to himself.

"I know. But when I got here, Tess was already using it," Sloan explained.

"Which reminds me, someone left their cell phone in there," Tess remarked brightly.

"It's mine," Sloan replied, at the exact same moment that Don uttered, "It's _hers_," while pointing at Sloan.

"Oh . . . OK. Good," Tess replied, looking from Don to Sloan with a knowing grin on her face.

The three of them stood there in silence for a moment, just staring at one another. Then, Don caught Tess' attention, and not-so-subtly inclined his head toward the door. Tess got the drift.

"Don't worry, I'm going! I just have to wash my hands first!"

As it turned out, Tess was a frustratingly thorough hand washer . . .

Once she left, Don looked at Sloan and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, "_Your move_."

"I have to wash my hands too," Sloan admitted.

"I guess I should be glad this office has such high standards of personal hygiene," Don mused.

"Actually, studies have shown that bathrooms are actually the cleanest parts of an office. Most workplace germs reside on our phones and computer keyboards," Sloan explained, immediately chastising her Inner Nerd, for revealing such arguably pointless information at a time _like this._ "You know, Tess is going to tell everybody about us," she added quickly, as she wiped her hands on a paper towel, and tossed it in the trash.

"Yeah, well . . . it certainly wouldn't be the first time I was the subject of office gossip," Don replied grimly.

"More like the 38th time," Sloan corrected. "Well, 39th, if you count that time when . . . Wow, I _really_ need to start thinking before I speak. Let's start over."

"Please," said Don, offering Sloan a lopsided smile.

"Honestly, I feel like I took advantage of you," Sloan blurted out, suddenly seeming incredibly interested in the pattern of the tiles on the bathroom floor.

Don grinned, as he took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his back pocket. "You took _advantage_ of me?" He repeated.

Sloan shrugged. "Don, you are fresh off a breakup with a woman, who you've been, more or less, dating, ever since I've known you. You're _clearly_ vulnerable. What you needed last night was a _friend_ . . . someone to keep you from doing something that you would ultimately regret. And instead, you got . . . _me."_

Don deliberately crossed the room toward Sloan. "Is_ that_ what you think? That I regret what happened last night?"

"Well, considering you just said that . . ." Sloan began pointedly.

"I _know_ what I said," interrupted Don, as he deftly removed Sloan's sunglasses from her face, and gently placed them on the counter beside him.

Their faces were inches apart now. And the proximity caused Sloan to make the lethal mistake of looking Don directly in the eyes. Just as she suspected, they were as tired-looking and bloodshot as hers felt. And yet, there was something behind them that she _hadn't_ quite expected . . . an intensity, a yearning, and, yes, _desire. _Sloan let out an involuntary sigh. The last time Don had looked at her _this way_ was right before they . . .

* * *

"_I can't believe I let you talk me into that," Sloan exclaimed as she and Don half-walked and half-stumbled out of Coed Naked._

"_Sloan's first lap dance," Don proclaimed, his words now more noticeably slurred than they were before. "I should get you a commemorative plaque for the occasion. You could hang it in your office, next to all your diplomas. I'm sure Charlie would love it!"_

"_You know, that actually made me kind of jealous of men," Sloan mused, feeling uncharacteristically lightheaded and giddy. "There are just so many creative things you guys can do with your genitalia. Ours just kind of sits there, being lazy. Well, except for that whole 'birthing thing.'"_

"_Ahhh yes, the good ole, 'birthing thing,' Don joked. "Totally overrated, if you ask me."_

_It was at that moment that Sloan tripped over a rock . . . or, perhaps, a crack in the sidewalk, or, maybe, it was her own feet, she couldn't be quite sure. All she knew was that, one moment, she was standing on her own, and the next, Don was holding her upright, with one hand wrapped tightly around her waist, and the other on her shoulder._

_He was amazed by how well their bodies fit together. Maggie was so tiny that Don always felt like a bit of an ogre, whenever he hugged her. Even in heels, she had to stand on her tippy toes, just to kiss him._

_Kissing . . . god, he wanted so badly to kiss Sloan, right now, it was almost painful. And the look in her eyes told him that she was feeling it too._

"_Night cap at my place," Don asked, his voice sounding oddly husky and breathless in Sloan's ear._

"_Definitely," she replied._

* * *

He kissed her then . . . right there in the women's restroom, catching her by surprise, as his hands cupped her face, and his lips melted into hers. _He's going to crush me. _Sloan thought to herself. _Break my heart into a million pieces. Ruin me for all other men. Ugh, I'm such a cliché!_

But the more her head told her to pull away . . . keep her distance . . . save her soul from future strife, the more her hands and body seemed to be doing everything in their power to bring him _closer_. Before Sloan could stop herself, she was grabbing the fabric of his blue work shirt in her finger tips, and pulling his firm body against hers, as she pressed herself against the bathroom wall. She let out a soft moan, as his lips worked their way down toward the nape of her neck.

Then, the bathroom door swung open. "Oh, wow . . . this is . . . I didn't . . . I should . . . I . . ." sputtered the intruder.

It was Maggie.


	4. Chapter 4

Don jumped backwards, as if he had just received an electric shock. "Wait, Maggie. It's not what it . . ." he began.

Then, he realized that his right hand was still cupped over Sloan's boob . . .

Maggie was out the bathroom door, and down the hall, before Don could even finish his sentence . . .

Sloan shook her head. "_Annnnnd_, here we go again," she mused, extricating herself from Don's grasp, while she straightened the fabric of her charcoal skirt suit with her hands. "It was nice while it lasted, kiddo," she concluded, as she brushed past him.

Despite her feigned nonchalance, the hard edge to Sloan's voice was unmistakable.

"Wait a second. Am I missing something here?" Don asked, reaching out for Sloan's wrist.

She pulled back from him, choosing instead to fold her arms across her chest defensively. "You know, you remind me a little bit of a lab experiment I once read about," Sloan explained. "There was this rat in a cage with nothing but a piece of cheese. Every time the rat went for the cheese, the scientists would shock him. But while _most_ rats would have eventually learned to _stop_ going for the cheese, _this_ rat just kept going for it, day after day. The scientists concluded that all those electric shocks must have fried its brain, keeping it from learning traditional responses to pain and punishment. Eventually, the rat died."

Don narrowed his eyes at Sloan. "OK . . . so I guess I'm supposed to be the _brain-damaged rat_ in this story, just because my ex-girlfriend happened to walk in on us kissing?"

"No," replied Sloan.

"Well, that's a relief," Don retorted.

"You're the brain damaged rat in this story, because your _ex_-girlfriend saw you kissing someone else, and it caused you to get this look on your face, like you had just been caught mutilating a puppy."

Don had a habit of running his hands through his hair, and pacing the room, whenever he was aggravated. Sloan secretly used to find these little idiosyncrasies adorable. But they didn't seem so adorable now . . .

"You don't understand," Don insisted. "This thing between Maggie and me, it's . . ."

"_Complicated_?" Sloan interrupted. "Honestly, Don. You're a journalist. I would have hoped you'd be able to come up with a more original line than that."

Don sighed, as he leaned his head back against the bathroom wall. "Listen . . . she caught me off guard, and I reacted badly. I'm sorry. What can I say to make you feel better about this?"

"I don't know," Sloan replied honestly, shrugging her shoulders. "Why don't you give it a try?"

"OK," Don said slowly. "Maggie and I are _over._ She's with Jim now, and . . ."

"_Wrong answer,_" Sloan interjected coldly, as she pushed past Don, toward the exit.

"That's not what I . . . Sloan, you didn't let me finish," Don exclaimed as he raced to stop her from leaving.

"Just so you know, I'm going to go back to ignoring you now," Sloan promised, as she allowed the bathroom door to slam shut in Don's face.

As always, Don couldn't let the situation rest, without having the last word. So, he pushed the door back open, and called out after her. "Hey Sloan, you want to know the _real_ reason why you're still single?"

That got her. Sloan froze in the middle of the hallway. Don watched her back stiffen, as she waited for a response. "Because you don't trust anyone to be smart enough to know how_ amazing_ you are," he concluded, his anger diminishing with each word, until all that was left was regret.

Sloan turned then and looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. For a moment, Don thought that she might come running right back into his arms. And in fact, that was precisely what Sloan had _planned_ to do. But instead, she just walked away . . . leaving him _alone_ . . . and not for the first time that day, either . . .

* * *

"_So, this is your place," Sloan said, allowing her eyes to wander the expanse of Don's apartment, while he extracted the key from the door. "It's . . . very clean."_

_Don shrugged. "Yeah, I actually have someone come and clean it, once every other week. It costs 70 dollars each time she walks in the door. Totally worth it. I haven't touched a toilet brush in years."_

_Sloan smiled. "I've always thought about hiring someone to clean my apartment. But I could never bring myself to do it. I guess I always just felt like the cleaning lady would judge me for not washing my bath towels often enough, or something."_

"_Yes, they are a judgmental breed, those cleaning women," Don replied with a smirk._

_What followed was an uncomfortable silence, during which it dawned on both Don and Sloan that Sloan was in Don's apartment past 2 a.m. on a weeknight . . ._

"_So, how about that night cap?" Don asked with an awkward laugh._

"_Yes, please," replied Sloan._

_Two hours later, Don and Sloan were seated next to one another on Don's couch. Sloan was facing Don, with her elbow propped up against the couch, and her hand cupped around her chin. Don had his arm draped casually across the back of the furniture. On the table in front of them was a nearly empty bottle of Chardonnay. _

"_For the record, I did almost ask you out, once," Don admitted, knowing he must be thoroughly tanked to be willingly sharing this information._

_Sloan felt her cheeks flush at this admission, but assured herself that this was merely a side effect of all the alcohol she had recently consumed. "You did not! Really? When?"  
_

"_The office Christmas Party . . . two years ago. I had just found out I had been promoted to EP. Maggie had just been hired on as an intern. You were standing by a Christmas tree, wearing that red dress with the low-cut back, and rattling off the annual U.S. stock market returns, like you were Dustin Hoffman from Rain Man."_

_Sloan leaned forward to grab her wine glass, inadvertently brushing her leg against Don's thigh, as she did so. "So, what you're saying is you wanted to ask me out, because I reminded you of Dustin Hoffman in a dress?"_

_Don laughed. "Trust me. I've seen the movie Tootsie. You look nothing like Dustin Hoffman in a dress. I was so captivated by you that night. I'm sure every guy in the place was . . . some of the women too. I don't think I had ever met anyone so smart or sexy before."_

_Sloan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and leaned in closer. "So, why didn't you . . . ask me out, I mean?"_

"_Because . . . I was pretty sure you'd say no," Don admitted._

"_Back then? I would have said no," agreed Sloan._

_Don grinned. "See? Guys just know these things! Mind telling me why?"_

"_Honestly . . . and please don't get offended by this . . . I thought you were arrogant and kind of smarmy, when I first met you."_

_Don nodded, as he took a long, slow sip of his wine. "That's probably because I am arrogant and kind of smarmy."_

"_But that's just it. You're not," Sloan insisted resolutely. "You just want people to think you are."_

_Don took a moment to marvel at this gorgeous woman, who somehow seemed to understand him, better than he understood himself. "OK," he said finally. "So, now, I have to ask . . . what changed?"_

"_You started talking to me," Sloan admitted thoughtfully. "You were the only one in the office who ever really talked to me, as opposed to talking at me, or around me. Everyone else seemed to think that I was too pretty, or too smart, or too socially awkward to really talk to. But not you. Before I knew it, talking to you became my favorite part of the day. I don't know. Is that weird?"_

"_I don't think it's weird at all," Don replied, leaning over to gently trace his fingers across the curves of Sloan's face. "It's . . ."_

_But Don couldn't really articulate what 'it' was, because he was much too mesmerized by Sloan's lips, and how much he wanted to kiss them. And, before he knew what was happening, he was kissing them, first tentatively, then more voraciously, as he felt her lithe body pressing against his. Then, her hands started tugging at the fabric of his work shirt, which he gladly took off, flinging the offending piece of fabric, on the floor in front of them._

"_Are you sure about this?" He whispered in her ear, as the pair moved together toward the bedroom, leaving a telltale trail of clothing lying in their wake._

"_I've never been more sure about anything," Sloan answered breathlessly, as she allowed herself to fall backward onto Don's grey flannel sheets . . ._

_She hadn't really been able to sleep much, after it was over . . . dozing only occasionally, as she stared at the ceiling, contemplating the sequence of events that had brought her to this very place. When she got bored of the ceiling, she turned over and watched Don sleep . . . brushing her fingers gently across his cheeks, lips, and eyelids, as his eyes fluttered lightly, and his chest rose and fell to the rhythm of his breathing. Doing this made her feel safer, and less alone, than she had felt in a long time._

_When the e-mail about the mandatory early morning staff meeting popped up on her Blackberry, Sloan decided to let Don sleep a little bit longer, before telling him. For one thing, she knew how miserable the information was going to make him. For another, she'd selfishly prefer not to have to battle him for the bathroom, while they were both getting ready._

_So, she slid out of the bed, and tiptoed toward the linen closet, smiling when she saw Don's neat, and expertly folded stack of cleaning lady-approved towels on the shelf in front of her. Then, she saw The Box . . ._

"_You know, when you move in with someone, it's harder to break up with them. You have to get cartons."  
_

_Sloan's own earlier words to Don replayed cruelly in her head, as she, against her better judgment, extracted from the closet the "carton" with the name "Maggie" written across the top in black Magic Marker._

"_Put it back, Sloan," she scolded herself out loud._

_But she didn't put it back. Instead, she took a thoroughly self-destructive inventory of everything that was inside: a dog-eared and heavily highlighted copy of the novel "Eat, Pray, Love ("Well, THAT explains a lot," she thought to herself), an Adele CD, a DVD of the film Pretty in Pink, a weathered grey college sweatshirt, and a bottle of blue nail polish. There was also a photo collage featuring Maggie and Don doing "coupley" things, like wearing swimsuits at a beach . . . posing in front of a ski slope in puffy jackets . . . eating pizza with friends . . . dancing together at a colleague's wedding, where Sloan was also in attendance . . . huddled together at a booth in Hang Chews. Then, Sloan sees the all-too-familiar blue container of birth control pills . . . half empty._

"_Hello?" Don muttered into his cell phone, his voice still heavy with sleep. "9:15? Please, tell me you're joking . . . Fine, whatever . . . goodbye."_

_Don rolled over on his back, after hanging up the phone. "Hey Sabbith, I've got some really bad news for you," he admitted sullenly, reaching his hand across the expanse of the bed to gently shake her awake._

_But Sloan was already long gone . . ._


	5. Chapter 5

"_Don Keefer_ . . . so glad you could join us," announced Reese Lancing, as Don tried to slip into the packed conference room, 25 minutes after the staff meeting had started.

Needless to say, given the kind of morning he had, Don was not in the mood to put up with the ACN president's sanctimonious crap. "Hey, Reese . . . don't mind me. Please, by all means, continue your fascinating annual speech about why we all have to forego a substantial chunk of our Christmas bonuses, so that you and Mommy Dearest can spend another summer at your beach house in Puerto Vallarta."

Reese sneered, but recovered quickly, with a false smile. "Oh, not _everyone_, Don . . . just _you."_

"Really?" Don replied.

"No . . . it's everyone," Reese muttered.

"Well good. I was beginning to think you were going soft on us," Don replied, folding his arms across his chest.

And it probably would have ended there, but Reese just had to keep picking at the already open wound . . .

"We're all still waiting for you to apologize for your lateness, Don. No rush, of course. It's not as though we have television programs to produce, or anything."

Don felt his hands clench into fists. Man, did this prick pick the _wrong day_ to mess with him! "Excuse me? Did I just walk into a bad high school flashback? Are you going to give me detention? You know, you could have chosen any time to hold this meeting, Reese. Everyone knows you chose _this_ time just to piss off the night staff."

Reese smiled smugly, not even bothering to deny the accusation. "Sorry to interfere with your beauty sleep, Don," he retorted.

"If you want to make some _real_ budget cuts, take a look in the women's restroom. Do you know they actually have a machine in there that sprays perfume into the air every five minutes?"

It wasn't until Tess started giggling, that Don realized what he had just said. "Umm . . . at least, that what I've heard," he covered quickly.

But it was too late. Don felt the eyes of everyone in the conference room bearing down on him. Will McAvoy looked vaguely amused. MacKenzie McHale seemed sympathetic. Neal Sampat was staring at him, like he had just turned into Bigfoot, right before his very eyes. Sloan Sabbith was glaring at him. And Maggie Jordan was nowhere to be found . . .

Don closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. "Listen, everyone, I'm sorry for the outburst. I'm just not feeling well this morning. I'm going to go. Reese . . . sorry for the interruption. You can now return to your regularly scheduled Reverse Robin Hood Speech," he mumbled, as he backed out of the door.

It wasn't until he returned to his office, that Don realized he couldn't bring himself to go back to his apartment just yet, not when doing so would mean he would have to face the telltale wine glasses on the coffee table . . . or the unmade bed . . . or the smell of Sloan's perfume on his pillow. So, instead, he slumped down in his desk chair, and put his head in his hands . . .

He woke up to the sound of tapping on glass. It was MacKenzie. Don rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with one hand, as he haphazardly waved his colleague inside with the other.

"Funny thing about glass walls," MacKenzie mused, as she sat down in the seat across from Don, crossing her legs in front of her. "They make it really hard to take a nap in your office, without being discovered."

Don winced, as he massaged the back of his neck, with his right hand. "Would you believe I was just resting my eyes?" He asked futilely.

"No . . . I wouldn't," replied MacKenzie, with a sympathetic smile.

"What can I do for you, MacKenzie?" Don inquired, as he absentmindedly clicked through his e-mails, without really reading them.

MacKenzie leaned back in her chair. "Actually, I just thought you could use a friend."

"What gave you that idea?" Don asked gloomily, before answering his own question. "The staff meeting."

"The staff meeting," MacKenzie repeated. "For what it's worth, I _agree_ with you. What they are doing with the staff bonuses is reprehensible. And holding that meeting at 9:15 in the morning, when most of us work until midnight, and don't get in until after 1, was TOTAL bull-. But something tells me that's not what your outburst was really about."

Don shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.

"Am I correct in assuming that your recent bad temper has something to do with a certain smart and beautiful female?" Mackenize offered, with a wink.

Don looked up at his colleague sullenly. "With all due respect, MacKenzie, I'd really rather not talk to you about this."

"Why not?" MacKenzie probed. "I think you'll find me to be an exceptionally good listener."

"Because . . . you're Team _Jim_," Don muttered, recognizing how ridiculous his words sounded, the minute they left his mouth.

"I'm _what_?" MacKenzie asked, stroking her chin with amusement.

"You're Team Jim," Don repeated. "It's OK. I get it. Jim's a stand-up guy . . . always polite . . . unassuming. He's the kind of guy people root for. Heck, I even find myself rooting for him, sometimes."

"I _am_ Team Jim," MacKenzie admitted.

"There you go," Don replied with a rueful smile.

"But I'm also Team _Don_," she added quickly.

"I see," Don mused. "So, you think we should _both_ be with Maggie. How very forward thinking of you."

MacKenzie narrowed her eyes. "Don't be coy with me, Don. We both know I wasn't talking about Maggie, and neither were _you."_

"MacKenzie, I really don't think that . . ." Don began.

"WHY ARE YOU MUCKING THINGS UP WITH SLOAN?" MacKenzie interrupted, her voice coming out louder than she had initially intended.

Outside Don's office, a few people turned around to look at them . . .

"Hey," Don argued, putting his palms up defensively. "What makes you so sure _I'm_ the one mucking things up?"

"Because," MacKenzie explained matter-of-factly, as she rose from her seat. "Anyone could see she's crazy about you. And you clearly have romantic feelings for her. So, if you're not together right now, the only possible explanation is that you are mucking things up!"

Don sighed, and placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose. "You're right. I mucked things up," he confessed dejectedly.

"Good," MacKenzie exclaimed, clapping her hands together, gleefully. "Admitting is the first step. Now, stop feeling sorry for yourself, get out there, and _un-muck_ them!"

"Has anyone ever told you that your ceaseless optimism is kind of annoying?" Don wondered out loud.

"All the time," replied MacKenzie with a grin.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Don replied, recalling the look on Sloan's face, before walking away from him that morning.

"True love is never simple. That's what makes it so rewarding, when we achieve it," MacKenzie responded dreamily.

Don smirked. "You got that off a fortune cookie, didn't you?"

"How did you know?" MacKenzie pouted.

Because we order takeout from the same Chinese restaurant," Don answered.

"It doesn't make the sentiment any less true," MacKenzie insisted.

"Yeah," Don said thoughtfully. "Well, if you don't mind, I've got some work I need to catch up on."

"Of course," Mackenize replied politely, as she headed for the door. "I'll leave you alone."

"And MacKenzie?"

"Yes, Don?"

"Thanks," Don offered with a genuine smile.

"Anytime," responded MacKenzie, pumping her fist in triumph. "Go TEAM DON!"

Don rolled his eyes, and shook his head.

"Too much?" MacKenzie asked shyly.

"A little bit," Don admitted, as she shut the door behind her.

Turning his attention back to his computer, Don opened the file containing the rundown for that night's ten o'clock show. He was pretty satisfied with it, actually. Just a few more tweaks, and it would be good to go . . . assuming, of course, that nothing ground breaking happened in the world, in the next few hours. Don cracked his knuckles, and placed his fingers on the keyboard, eager to throw himself into his work, and forget about the last few hours of his life, even if only for a little while . . .

Less than a minute later, Maggie Jordan was hovering by his door. Don bit his lower lip, and braced himself. Clearly, this was just going to be one of _those_ days . . .


	6. Chapter 6

Maggie Jordan blew through Don's office, like a mini tornado, made up entirely of frenetic energy, nervous hand wringing, and tiny compulsive toe taps. Upon closing the door behind her, she decisively moved as far away from it as possible, as if mere proximity to the exit would cause her to lose her nerve, and make a quick escape.

"Hi," she managed to utter, after taking a deep and exaggerated breath.

"Hi," replied Don, as he leaned back in his chair, and put his feet on his desk.

He had decided to wait her out . . .

"Hi," Maggie tried again, after an extended silence.

Clearly, this was going to take awhile . . .

"Do you realize that, whenever you are about to make one of your Big Speeches, you do this thing with your lips? It's kind of a weird cross between a pucker and a pout," Don posited.

Maggie glared at Don, while self-consciously covering her hand over her mouth. And yet, it was her frustration over his comment that ultimately enabled her to overcome her anxiety, and say what she had come there to say, just as Don suspected it would . . .

"When I saw you and Sloan . . ._ together . . . _in the bathroom, I was . . . _surprised_," Maggie began, choosing her words carefully, as her eyes darted around the room, deliberately avoiding Don's face. "But, I shouldn't have run out the way I did. That was immature, and . . . _inappropriate."_

The second part of Maggie's speech was clearly improvised, and, therefore, more difficult for her to deliver than her first. This caused her to blurt out her words in rapid-fire fashion, as she clasped her hands tightly in front of her.

"You and I are broken up. And Sloan is a great person. You had every right to kiss her . . . though I'm not sure why you felt the need to do it in the women's restroom."

Don grinned, in spite of himself. "The men's room was already taken," he offered, hoping to lighten the mood.

But Maggie refused to allow herself to be derailed . . . not when she had already come this far. "_Anyway_ . . . what I am trying to say is that I am really happy that you two found one another. And I'm sorry for how I behaved. You should know that I plan on making the same apology to Sloan, as soon as I leave this office."

Don frowned, inadvertently revealing to Maggie the cracks in his façade of arrogant nonchalance. "Please don't," he pleaded.

Maggie misinterpreted Don's plea for politeness. "No, it's OK. I want to! Sloan deserves to know that I . . ."

"Sloan and I aren't exactly . . ." Don interrupted, suddenly feeling ridiculous for revealing the details of his _current situation_ to Maggie, of all people. "Just, _don't _. . . OK? Promise me you won't mention this to her."

Realization dawned on Maggie's face. "_Wait_ . . . are you two fighting because I . . . and she thought that . . . OH NO!"

Maggie allowed herself to really look at Don, for the first time since she had entered the room. She saw how tired he looked . . . how twin dark circles hugged his bloodshot eyes. In all the time they had dated, she couldn't recall a time when he looked so _broken . . ._

"It's not that, Maggie," Don assured her. "I mean, I guess it may have _started_ that way, but there's much more to it than that."

"I _suck_ as a human being," Maggie muttered dejectedly, as she slumped down in the chair recently vacated by MacKenzie, and put her head in her hands.

"You do _not_ suck as a human being," Don insisted exasperatedly.

Maggie then rose from her seat, and began pacing the room, with wide-eyed determination. "It's OK, because I'm going to fix this! I'm going to go to Sloan, right now, and tell her that she has absolutely nothing to worry about. Because Jim and I . . ."

"Maggie, just STOP!" Don exclaimed, a bit more loudly than he intended.

Maggie immediately ceased her pacing, and gave Don a deer-in-headlights look that made him feel sorry for her again. _How did she always manage to do that?_ He thought to himself.

"Listen, I appreciate your offering to help," Don said, in a voice he hoped sounded calmer and less combative. "I've just come to the conclusion that I'm not really cut out for _serious relationships_. You would know that better than anyone, considering you were in one with me for a year."

"NO! Don't you dare talk like that, Don Keefer," Maggie demanded, waving her finger in his face, like a stern school teacher.

Don suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. "Did MacKenzie put you up to this?" He wondered out loud.

Maggie looked at him with confusion. "No. Why would you think that?"

"No reason," Don replied with a smirk.

"Anyway . . . I want you to know that you and I were _terrible_ together, and that our relationship was _truly_ awful," Maggie explained solemnly.

"Um . . . OK," Don replied.

It was his turn to look confused, not to mention slightly offended . . .

"No, I mean like really, really, unbelievably _bad. _As a couple we were . . ."

"OK! I get it, Maggie . . . thank you," Don interrupted, annoyed.

"Honestly, I don't think you do," Maggie insisted. "Look, I'm not saying this to hurt your feelings, or because I think you had any more to do with why our relationship failed than I did. I'm saying it because it took me actually _being_ in another relationship to realize how screwed up _our_ relationship was."

Don rolled his eyes. "Yes, and now you are with _Jim_. And the stars are brighter . . . and the birds are _singing_ . . . and the world is a shiny place, filled only with joy. _Hallelujah_," Don interjected caustically.

"NO! Gosh, you can be a real dick, sometimes. You know that?" Maggie griped, blowing a stray strand of hair of her face, in aggravation.

"It's part of my charm," Don remarked dryly.

"No comment," retorted Maggie. "Look, all relationships are messy. And making them work takes struggle and sacrifice. But when you are with the right person, making these sacrifices doesn't feel like work. It feels . . . _natural."_

Don hated to admit it (basically, because he despised ever being proven wrong), but Maggie had a point. The two of them had never really gotten into that rhythm that other couples seemed to sink into so easily. And, often times, when they were dating, he couldn't shake the feeling that the two of them were just going through the motions of being a couple, rather than actually _being_ one."

"Don, I've seen the way you two look at one another . . . you and Sloan. It's like, no matter how many other people are around, you two are the only ones in the room. And you've been looking at one another like that since_ long_ before you and I broke up. You just never let yourself see it . . . because you were too busy trying to make things work with me."

Don sat silently, while he let Maggie's words sink in. _Was she right? Was it possible that he had feelings for Sloan all this time, and was just starting to recognize them now?_

"It's like you guys have your own language, you know?" Maggie mused. "You're both so _cool_ . . . and _dry_ . . . and _sarcastic_. It always used to make me feel kind of left out."

"It's funny . . . because that's how I exactly how I felt, when I used to watch you talking to Jim," Don admitted with a rueful smile.

Maggie grinned. "Exactly! So, here's my piece of advice to you . . . as someone who knows you better than most people. You and I spent a year of our lives in a relationship that we knew wasn't working . . . all because we didn't want to hurt each other's feelings. Don't waste anymore time alone, just because you're too 'nice' or 'polite' to get what you really want."

Don stroked his chin thoughtfully, but said nothing, making Maggie feel like this was probably her cue to leave . . .

"Maggie . . . wait," Don pleaded, just as she had reached the door. "How do I get her back?"

Don fully recognized the irony of the fact that, after a year of constantly asking Sloan for advice on his relationship with Maggie, he was now doing exactly the opposite . . .

"Simple," Maggie said with a smile. "Just show her that you speak her language."

It was at that moment that Don realized exactly what he had to do . . .


	7. Chapter 7

Don was walking briskly down the hall of the ACN newsroom, trying his best to keep up with Sloan, who was doing _her_ best to evade him . . .

"Listen, I know you're intent on doing this whole 'ignoring me' thing again," posited Don, as he fell into stride with his prey. "But I honestly don't have anyone else to ask. So, if you do me this one favor, I promise, as soon as it's over, you can go right back to pretending I don't exist."

"You have two minutes," Sloan instructed coldly, as she continued down the hall, refusing to look Don in the eye.

Don mentally patted himself on the back for getting this far. "I need you to do a segment for 10 o'clock," he admitted.

"You're joking, right?" Sloan scoffed.

"What makes you think I'm joking?"

"Because," Sloan explained matter-of-factly, "the closest 10 o'clock ever comes to reporting on financial news is when Elliot reads out the weekly Box Office Report."

"The Box Office Report _is_financial news," Don retorted.

Sloan abruptly stopped walking, and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Entertainment drives a substantial portion of our nation's economy," he clarified, with a self-satisfied grin. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Sloan rolled her eyes and continued moving, "You're down to one minute," she warned.

"How familiar are you with Suze Orman?" Don inquired.

Sloan shrugged. "I know she's a financial expert," she offered, placing air quotes around the word _expert_. "And I know she's got a fairly popular TV show, where she tells couples with no jobs, and $50,000 in credit card debt, that they should _probably_think twice about building swimming pools in their backyards."

Don smiled. "Yeah . . . well, apparently, in light of the recent economic climate, she's _also_been quietly eating away at our ratings."

"It's Nancy Grace all over again," Sloan mused sympathetically.

"Precisely," Don replied.  
Sloan shook her head. "I'm not sure I like where this is going."

"Well . . . tell me where you think it's going, and maybe I can make you like it better," offered Don, as he casually stood between Sloan and the door that had her name stenciled on the front.

In an attempt to enter her office and put a preliminary end to this conversation, Sloan tried to push past Don, linebacker-style. This ended up being an incredibly bad idea. The close proximity of their bodies, as the two jostled for space, brought back memories for both of the night before . . . memories that Sloan would rather _not_ have been thinking about at that moment. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to stay focused on the matter at hand.

Don cleared his throat, and shifted on the balls of his feet, feeling unusually self-conscious. "So, um, you were saying . . . about where this is going?"

Sloan sighed, "Let's put it this way, if someone was out of work, and 50 grand in debt . . . and he called _me_ for advice on whether he should put a pool in his backyard? I'd tell him he should dig a hole, where he wanted to put the pool, and _bury himself inside of it._ In case you haven't noticed, I'm not what you'd call a 'people person.'"

Don folded his arms across his chest, and smirked. "I see your point. But I'm not asking you to interact with callers. All I want is a three-minute segment that gives the average American a basic understanding of individualized investments. You know, 401Ks versus IRA's . . . Roth versus non-Roth . . . traditional money market accounts versus CDS . . . bonds versus funds versus stocks. You see where I'm going with this, right?"

Though she tried to feign disinterest, Don could tell Sloan was clearly intrigued. "And you think incorporating a segment like this into your show will help your ratings . . ." she probed.

"I do," replied Don.

Sloan leaned back against the door to her office, and bit her lower lip pensively. "The problem is I'm already doing a live segment for News Night. That doesn't give me a whole lot of time to prep between the two shows."

Don nodded smugly. "Well, then it's a good thing your segment for_ my_ show will be pre-taped, isn't it?"

"The chances of my finding a good excuse to get out of this are pretty slim, aren't they?" Sloan inquired, as she opened the door to her office, and reluctantly let Don inside.

"Infinitesimal," Don replied, pressing his thumb and forefinger together in front of his face, by way of representation. "Look, the copy has already been written. The graphics are pre-produced. We can reserve the studio for late afternoon, or whenever you're available. You come in. You read from the teleprompter. We record it. And you're done! I'll be in your ear the whole time."

Sloan grimaced. "I've heard that line from you before. It didn't work out so well for me, last time."

Don smirked. "Yeah, well . . . maybe if you actually _kept_ me in your ear, it would have turned out better. See you in the studio, Sabbith," he concluded with a wink, offering the news anchor a makeshift army salute, before exiting her office.

Once alone, Sloan dropped down into her office chair, and spun herself around in a slow contemplative circle, as she stared at the ceiling. _It was just a three-minute news segment._ She reminded herself. _Surely, she could get through that without further complicating matters . . . couldn't she?_

* * *

A few hours later, Sloan met Don in front of the control room. "Did you get my e-mail?" She inquired tentatively.

"I did," Don assured her with a wry smile.

"I didn't change all that much, really . . . just a few words in the intro, and that bit on index funds. I feel like it made things more precise."

"You're the expert," Don replied absent-mindedly, as he adjusted the sound levels on the control panel in front of him.

"The best part is that the overall run time would stay exactly the same," Sloan insisted. "At least, I t_hink_ it would. I ran through the adjusted copy a few times in my office. And each time it came out to about 3:52. Well, except for the time that my mother called in the middle, but that . . ."

"Sloan," Don interrupted, placing a calming hand on her arm. "It's _fine. _The changes were fine. I've already updated the teleprompter to reflect them."

"Oh," replied Sloan, feigning nonchalance, though the ear-to-ear grin she was wearing gave her excitement away. "That's great, thank you."

Don cocked his head to the side in fascination, while he watched Sloan intently review some notes she had printed on index cards . . . her mouth moving subtly as she read to herself. It never ceased to amaze Don how much she loved doing _this . . . _delivering news to "the masses." Don still vividly remembered the day he got to tell those United Airlines pilots that Osama Bin Laden had been killed . . . the adrenaline rush he felt . . . the sense of accomplishment, and well-being that washed over him, when he uttered those deceptively simple words. _Sloan must feel that way every day._ He thought to himself.

It almost made Don feel . . . well, this probably wasn't the best time to be exploring _those_ feelings . . .

"Where do you want me to sit?" Sloan asked, as she entered the studio. "I mean, I probably shouldn't sit where Elliot sits. Or else, when they cut away from him and roll my footage, it might look like Elliot morphed into a woman, during the commercial break."

Don was too distracted to even pick up on the joke. "Oh, um . . . just sit wherever you want," he replied tonelessly, without even looking up at the television screen in front of him.

Don's style of producing was so much more laid back than MacKenzie's that Sloan often found it a bit disconcerting jumping from one EP to the other. Case in point: if this were _MacKenzie's_ news segment, she probably would have put two X's on the seat, to show Sloan where each of her butt cheeks should go . . .

"Whenever you're ready," Sloan heard Don announce into her headset, shaking her out of her reverie.

Sloan took a deep breath, flashed her trademark on-camera smile at the video camera in front of her, and began to read from the teleprompter.

"As millions of American's reach retirement age, and as the future of Social Security becomes increasingly uncertain, it's more important than ever that Average Americans protect their financial futures. This is true no matter how old you are, or how much you currently have in your bank account. Think you don't have enough money to start investing? Think again. Saving as little as a dollar a day, at a 5% annual return, can earn you over $25,000 in less than 30 years," Sloan began, her confidence building with each word she spoke.

"Of course, not all investments are equal. And the make-up of your individual investment portfolio should depend on factors such as your age, income level, and aversion to risk. Here are just some of the basic tools you might consider including in your investment arsenal . . ."

Don watched Sloan's eyes narrow ever-so-slightly, as she read what came next on the teleprompter. Ever the consummate professional, Sloan attempted to continue with the broadcast, delivering the dialogue that she had, more or less, memorized anyway. Eventually, however, curiosity and confusion won out, just as Don expected it would . . .

"This is what I like to call a captive audience, Sloan Sabbith," Sloan read from the teleprompter, her brow furrowed in consternation. _That was definitely NOT in the script! _ "Don, cut the tape," she insisted. "Something's wrong with the teleprompter."

"Just keep reading," Don said calmly, a smile tugging insistently at the corners of his mouth.

Don could tell from the subtle back and forth movement of Sloan's eyes that she was reading to herself. And, honestly, where was the fun in _that_? "Out loud, please," he demanded.

Sloan, who was starting to get the impression that she was the butt of an incredibly obnoxious joke, scowled in the direction of the control room, but ultimately did as she was told.

"Sloan, I owe you an apology," the news anchor began to read. "I'm sorry for the way I acted this morning. I'm sorry that I made you feel as though kissing you was the equivalent to mutilating a puppy. Rest assured, this is not the case. In fact, I strongly suspect that if killing puppies felt anywhere near as good as kissing you felt, puppies would have gone extinct decades ago."

Sloan smirked, in spite of herself, then shook her head, and continued to read out loud.

"I will not, however, apologize for _last night_. Was it reckless? _Yes._ Was it impulsive? Sure. But if last night was a mistake, it was the best mistake I have ever made in my entire life."

"And it wasn't because I was drunk. And it wasn't because I was lonely, or because I was upset over Maggie. Last night happened, because, for years, I've had this brilliant, beautiful, sexy, funny, frustrating, slightly crazy, and amazing woman in my life. And, for some ridiculous reason, it took me getting wasted with her, and watching her get her first lap dance to realize how incredibly hard I've fallen for her."

Don had never seen Sloan truly blush, before now. He decided he liked it . . . _a lot_.

"So, right now, I'm going to do something I should have had the balls to do, two years ago," Sloan continued reading. "I'm going to ask you out. But you have to come to the control room and let me do it in person. That's all, for now. I'm Sloan Sabbith. Best of health."

(Don congratulated himself for adding Sloan's sign-off to the end of his speech. He thought it was a nice touch . . .)

Sloan sat very still for a moment, blinking heavily, her mouth hanging slightly open, as she tried to process what had just happened. Then, she very calmly removed her earpiece from her ear, rose from her chair, and exited the studio. By the time she had reached the control room, Don was standing by the door, looking exceptionally pleased with himself. "So, is that a _yes_?" He asked confidently.

Sloan came toward him slowly, her eyes never leaving his . . . not even for a moment. It wasn't until she was standing right in front of him that Don realized he had been holding his breath the entire time . . .

That was when she started hitting him _hard,_ with a rolled up newspaper she had picked up off of the control room floor . . .

Don was shocked and amused, but also, a little bit in pain. "Hey . . . _Slugger_, ease up on the batting practice, OK?" He pleaded. "This isn't high school softball."

"How dare you_ humiliate_ me like that . . . airing our dirty laundry in front of all these people I work with," Sloan exclaimed.

"What people? You and I are the only ones in here," Don replied, while rubbing at his now smarting right cheek.

"No, we are NOT the only ones here," Sloan began to argue, until it occurred to her that, in the red haze of her anger, she hadn't had the chance to actually _look around _the room_._

Now, she could see that it was completely empty . . .

"I sent them out for pizza," Don offered with a shrug. "My treat."

"So, Suze Orman _isn't_ really eating at your ratings?" Sloan asked.

"Nope," Don responded.

"And you _never_ really planned on teaching your viewers about investments?"

"Like you said, 10 o'clock doesn't _do_ business news. It's bad enough we have to give that pesky Box Office Report, every week," Don replied glibly.

Sloan glared at Don, and smacked him in the chest with her newspaper. "I _hate_ you," she exclaimed.

"No . . . you don't," he replied, locking eyes with Sloan as he held her in his increasingly intense gaze.

"You disgust me," she added, hitting him again, but with a bit less force this time, as she continued to stare him down.

"No . . . I _don't_," insisted Don, his voice sounding huskier and more breathless than before.

"I'd never go out with . . ." Sloan started to say.

But before she knew what was happening, Don had grabbed the newspaper from her hand, and tossed it to the floor. Then, he reached out and slowly traced a line from her cheekbone to her chin with his forefinger. Sloan sighed, as all the muscles in her body instinctively relaxed. She felt her resistance dwindling, by the second.

"Oh screw it," she said finally, admitting defeat, as she pushed Don roughly against the wall, and opened all the buttons on his work shirt in a single, determined tear.

They kissed one another's lips raw, while Don's hands explored every part of her body, snaking up the front of her shirt, caressing her shoulders, and drizzling down her back. And yet, in the middle of all that angry passion and ecstasy, Sloan somehow managed to retain the strength of mind to say _this:_

"Just so you know, now that I'm your girlfriend . . . or whatever, I'm_ absolutely_ making you produce that investment piece for your show. The fact that you made it all up, just to get back into my pants doesn't make it any less of a good idea."

"Ughhh! I feel so _used,_" Don groaned . . . but he was smiling when he said it.

* * *

When Martin and Tess passed by the control room 20 minutes later, they were surprised to find it still in use. "They only signed up for ten minutes of studio time. What do you think they're doing in there?" Martin wondered out loud.

Tess shrugged her shoulders. "I think he's helping her find her cell phone," she replied with a wink.

THE END?


End file.
